


some may stumble

by reclamation



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:25:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: If Javert needed any further evidence to prove the deficiency of his character, he now has a daily reminder.





	some may stumble

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works.

Javert had meant to dismiss both the fiacre and Valjean. Already the black grip of the Seine rises in his thoughts. But he spends too long standing in the summer evening, insensate to anything other than the chaos of his own doubt, because Valjean startles him from his half-formed plans with a calm:

“I have returned, Inspector.”

Javert did not expect him to come back. He stares without words.

If Valjean is confused at his silence, he does not show it. With great resolve, he deliberately offers up his hands—palms upwards—towards Javert.

He says, “You have fulfilled your end of the bargain. Now it is my turn.”

Javert’s mind splits in two. There is the familiar wolf, who would gladly tear open this offering and recognize Valjean for the convict he is. He should throw Valjean into the jaws of justice to be dealt with as the law dictates. It would require nothing more than walking Valjean to the nearest station house and uttering the simple sentence: ‘This man is the parole breaker by the name of Jean Valjean.’ He would not even have to stay to see Valjean bound and subjugated again.

But the second half of his mind rebels against such a cowardly decision. It shies from the idea entirely. This shameful half looks at Valjean to only see Madeleine, in all his kindnesses, and the hands that released Javert at the barricade despite knowing the sharp edges of Javert’s teeth and claws.

Javert considers the offered hands, but he cannot reconcile his thoughts.

“Not today,” Javert says at length. “I will arrest you tomorrow, Valjean.”

Javert turns sharply on his heel and goes.  
  
  
  
  
  
The promise of meeting Valjean again the next night keeps him from going to the Seine. When he arrives at rue de l'Homme Armé, number seven, he realizes that Valjean must have been waiting. He slips out of the doorway the moment Javert is within sight. He closes the door quietly behind himself, as if he does not want other tenants to hear his departure. Javert dismisses the odd behavior as Valjean’s understandable disinterest in having an audience to his arrest.

Javert has told himself that bending last night for a man who saved his life would not be so large a sin if he could set it to rights the following day. No, giving one day’s respite in return for being spared at the barricade does not feel like justice, but it must be. It is the only thing he can think of to make this work.

Again, like a lamb before the wolf, Valjean offers up his hands.

He reaches out to seize Valjean’s wrists, except the gesture is too gentle from its beginning. The loose shirt sleeves push up over Valjean’s forearms so that Javert’s fingers lie softly against the damaged skin they had been hiding. Valjean gasps, and Javert notices that Valjean trembles beneath his touch. Although he continues to shudder, Valjean does not allow his eyes to fall; he meets Javert’s gaze unflinchingly.

They are mirrors of each other then, because Javert shudders as well. The warmth of Valjean’s skin is too human. His gaze is too forthright, too assessing. Javert can no more do his duty tonight than he could on his previous attempt. But there is something awful that is soothed in him at their position. Having Valjean tangibly under his control pushes back the tide of doubt.

“Tomorrow,” he says, already knowing it for the lie it is. “Tomorrow I will have you back in the galleys, Valjean.”

Then Javert releases Valjean’s hands, one finger slowly giving away after another, as guilt already roils in his stomach. He does not know if the guilt is for once again leaving Valjean unshackled or for intending to continue to torment him.

Either way, Javert thinks, it does not matter.  
  
  
  
  
  
If Javert needed any further evidence to prove the deficiency of his character, he now has a daily reminder.

Valjean looks markedly wearier on the third night. The lines of his face seem to be etched more deeply. His shoulders slump into rounded arcs. He does not look surprised when Javert takes his wrists in hand, thumb and forefinger not quite meeting. Javert can feel the first flickers of shudders growing in the sinews and tendons he holds. When Valjean muscles start to twitch in earnest, Javert allows his hands to fall away.

“Tomorrow,” he says, trying to mean the promise.

Valjean still does not look surprised.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next night, Valjean’s patience finally breaks.

“Why do you hesitate?” he asks, resigned. It is the first time he has spoken since the first night.

Javert has no answer.

“Hesitation!” he says instead, curling his lip into a snarl. His hands almost wrap around the sturdy circles of Valjean’s wrists of their own accord. “You will go back to prison, and it will be when I say so.”

Valjean ducks his head, fixing his eyes on the floor. He says, “You have given me more time than I anticipated. I have made all the preparations necessary for C—” he chokes on whatever word he was going to say. He continues, a little strangled, “I am ready.”

It is only then, studying the portrait of unhappy submission Valjean has become, that Javert realizes that the damn man is entirely unaware of just how hollow Javert’s charade of duty is. Javert wonders how his gnawing uncertainty is not apparent. He feels it in every bone, and he was sure that he wore it across his face.

“This would be easier if you were not so cooperative. You say ‘very well, arrest your savior’ as if it is such an easy task when we both know you are closer to the angels than to man,” Javert says, laughing noiselessly. The situation is not amusing. Valjean’s furrowed expression does not invite amusement. But he cannot help the laughter as it continues, as it grows into sharp intakes of breath that sound hysterical to his own ears.

Valjean’s wrists have been extended between them the whole while. “What can I do, Javert?” Valjean asks. He sounds quite lost.

Good, Javert thinks cruelly, that makes two of us.

He clutches at Valjean’s scars with a peculiar relish.

“Not today either,” he says, and tightens his grip.  
  
  
  
  
  
On the fifth night, Valjean is not waiting for him.

His absence is enough to make Javert’s heart thud with dread and shame. If there is relief, he tries to let it burn in his anger. He has been duped. The convict played at subservience only long enough to ready his escape. He has worked himself into a state by the time he moves to rap on the door, the promise of a chase already buzzing beneath his skin, when it opens before he can lay a knuckle against it.

Valjean stands there, softened by candlelight.

“I thought,” Valjean says carefully, “perhaps, if you do not plan to arrest me straight away, we may as well have some tea.”

Javert is speechless. His throat works soundlessly, though he does not know what he means to say in response.

Valjean reaches out—not to offer himself up to Javert’s claws this time—and tugs lightly at the sleeve of his coat. When Javert gives in to the pull, Valjean carefully slides his hand down Javert’s arm to take his hand and pull him into the friendly dwelling. Javert searches his memory for any time in the past when he touched Valjean that has not been in stolen moments that grotesquely parody duty. His mind offers up instances that do nothing for his tenuous calm: He has applied the lash to Valjean’s back and he has gripped Valjean by the collar. Once, he refused to shake Valjean’s hand. Cruelty and pettiness.

Valjean closes the door behind them, but does not release Javert’s hand. Javert stares at the point of contact dumbly.

He cannot fathom Valjean’s callused palm carefully cradling his own. It makes no sense and it defies propriety and he cannot help reacting to the touch.

“Come,” Valjean says. When Valjean guides him into a seat, presumably so Valjean can fetch the promised tea, he finds himself adrift.

Valjean returns, settling a cup at Javert’s elbow.

“Careful, it is quite hot,” he murmurs.

Javert is sinking. Like a drowning man, he reaches out, nearly upsetting the tea in his haste, and grasps one of Valjean’s wrists in the same way he has the past three nights. Valjean allows it and places his other hand over Javert’s in answer.

“Javert,” he says, barely more than a whisper of breath.

Javert is hesitating now. Slowly, he relaxes his fingers until they slip down to Valjean’s hand. Valjean follows the movement so that Javert’s hand is held in both of Valjean’s.

“I cannot arrest you,” he confesses helplessly, because Valjean deserves to know.

A quiet sort of amusement overtakes Valjean’s features. Everything about him is welcoming with such an expression on his face. He says, “I had begun to suspect.”


End file.
